The Gift
by skysedge
Summary: I cannot help but think of him as the ghost of Christmas yet to come.


Christmas Eve. Morning. An envelope was placed in my hand with a smile.

Since I was a child, I had never received a Christmas present from my father. This is not entirely surprising. I expect little, whatever I may wish to hope for. At most, I have wished for a day to myself, away from the organisation. I could vanish from the city and seek the quiet company of the dwindling forests outside the boundaries. Of course, this has never happened. The thought alone has to be enough.

There seems to be no reason for this year being different. I had been working as usual on the latest scheme, my warm breath clouding the chill air of the lower level surgery when he approached me. He didn't wish me a happy Christmas, or anything like that, but it was an object, something physical being gifted to me.

Had I been happy? For a time, yes. Until I reached my chambers to open the envelope, I was pitifully awash with vague fantasies of warmth and gratitude. Alas, it is easy for a fragile mind to forget that tools are not deserving of gratitude. I was reminded thus when I opened it to see the contents.

Not a gift. Another task. A list, in fact, and a simple instruction. The list is of names and places, along with set times. The instruction is _eliminate. _

The time of peace on earth is an ideal time for mass assassination. Few expect danger, their senses dulled by sentiment.

I started this task eight hours ago. Since I began, the city has become dusted with snow and bathed in darkness. My hands are clean and held where people can see. From the wrist up, my arms are blood stained. I have lost count myself but my task list informs me that I have killed twelve enemies of Delilah since the morning began. I have employed various methods, a present to myself. I experimented with a fast acting poison I have been developing. Hallucinogens and persuasion. In the eyes of the drugged, I have appeared as one of Dickens' ghosts, robed in black and bearing ill tidings of the future.

I think of my own future. Will a ghost come for me? Will I see my own grave? I doubt I shall have one. Tools are fit only for burning and melting down to be reused anew. What of the other two spirits? 'Christmas Past'? I do not need an entity to show it to me. My memories are as crisp and bright as the oil lamps that shine like beacons above the heads of the bustling crowd. This is 'Christmas Present'. People, festive, holding hands and promenading together in the name of good will. Gifts being passed from hand to hand, delicately illustrated cards being delivered to tall houses with warm hearths.

My sisters often spoke fondly of hearths. If the ghost of past years was to come visit me, I am sure that is what I would be shown. I had asked them what Christmas meant to them. _An open fire, _they had said. _And sitting with the people you love. _I have but one clear memory of such a scene. I can no longer remember if the fire was warmer than the sins that have scorched me since.

I must live in the present. There is one name remaining on my list. It is a foolish, vain hope but I cannot help but dream of a true gift upon completing my task. A few hours to call my own. This is all I ask. If I was a wiser man, I would use them to flee the country. If I was a kinder man, I would abandon my hatred and use them to make peace. If I was a braver man, I would take my own life. But I am pitiful and cruel and cowardly and so I continue through the snow, a black smudge against the whites and greys, and head for the final destination.

My victims today had been in their homes without exception. Ex-members of the organisation, mostly, waiting for their families to return from tasks. The times are so perfect that they cannot have been coincidental. My father arranged it so. No doubt the last will be the same, although the location is different. A warehouse that lays near the construction site of yet another underground train station. The link seems suitable enough. My victim is to be an engineer, perhaps someone with plans that stand in the way of something my father has devised.

I feel little as I enter the stolid building. Early winter moonlight shines through the high dusty windows and lights enough of a path for me to see footprints. A trail. So it is to end here, my Christmas festivity. A place as isolated as this means I may be able to enjoy myself a little.

There is no need for stealth out here, I can be as cruel as I wish without jeopardising my mission. I continue along the trail with a scalpel in hand, slipping free of one glove to feel the sharpness of the edge. I am holding hands with an old friend, the two of us bonded in purpose. I am not alone, although I doubt anyone would understand.

This is enough. I need no ghosts, nor allies, nor family. I know my place on this earth and will play my part until its end. Determination is enough to keep even a failing body alive. I have proven to myself that it is strong enough to power a failing mind also.

The shadows begin to flicker and sway as I move into the main room of the warehouse. In a far corner, an open fire is burning. My feet betray me and I draw to a standstill. It is too similar to my thoughts for me to ignore. I can see a figure by the fire, slumped against the wall. Otherwise, the room is empty. A failed engineer, then. Even from here I can tell the person is homeless. A person the world will not miss.

This is perfect. A present to myself will be to release the year's frustrations on this one individual. If I am to have no grave then neither shall he.

My footsteps echo in the vast grey space. Either this man is deaf or he is choosing not to look up at my approach. Unthreatened, I maintain my course steadily until I am on the opposite side of his fire. An old metal drum, stuffed with debris, burns with a sickly chemical odour and lures small insects to their deaths. Perhaps it is they that distract me enough to miss the moment the intended victim gets to his feet and rushes at me.

A blade flashes fire into the darkness. A gift. I do nothing so much as flinch in face of the assault.

He stops. From the shadows of his hooded cloak, dark eyes shine with intense emotion. The hand holding the knife is scarred, mutilated even. He has frozen, this hand out flung, his eyes on mine.

I cannot help but think of him as the ghost of Christmas yet to come. Such is the sorrow radiating from his very being.

"Where am I buried, spirit?" I ask.

He slowly lowers the knife to his side. I wonder if I appear the same to him in my black overcoat, my long pale hair spilling over. Two ghosts in a spirit world of shadows, far from the festive warmth and life preached on each street corner.

It is romantic, almost. And tragic. I wish for us both to die here. It would be a secret all my own, something my father can never have. A grave would not be necessary. My body could rot into a strangers, into the dirt, become one with the world and be of value once more. If only I can make him -

"Doctor?"

The world freezes. What little breath I hold flees my body in a small tendril of grey. We stand either side of the fire. I watch him crumble. The knife falls to the floor. My scalpel remains in my hand and I try to draw myself up straight but my eyes sting and my lungs have turned to stone in my chest.

Not a spirit. But maybe not a living man either. A dead man, in another dead man's body. I cannot speak his name. Instead, I hold my assignment sheet towards him, all but one name crossed off. The name belongs to neither body this fiery soul has inhabited.

He leans forward to read it, eyes only leaving mine for a moment, and he gives a small nod.

"My street name," he confirms. "For this body. I'm a pickpocket, for now."

I think of the last times we saw one another, the bandages I had wound around his head, the sword in his back. That had been a gift too. Thoughts come slowly and habits are hard to extinguish. I raise the scalpel before me. It shakes in the light.

"Is this what you really want?"

He asks in a whisper but it is forceful enough for me to drop the weapon into the fire. It stings, this sudden action of rebellion, and my knees give way beneath me. I find myself on the floor before the oil drum and in a moment he is sitting beside me, silent.

The truth begins to dawn on me. This was the gift all along. I wonder if we are being watched. I should complete my task. I should leave. I should do a hundred things other than sit here and do nothing. My muscles refuse to move. I watch the fire and any dreams of destruction are melted away.

_An open fire, _they had said. _And sitting with the people you love._

Christmas past, was it? I believe I have found my spirit after all.

"I'm going to save you," he says.

He has made no move to touch me but I shudder, my carefully constructed world violated by the honesty of an open heart. I can do nothing. We sit and watch the fire crackle and burn until he speaks again.

"But you won't leave with me now, will you?"

I shake my head slowly. No. We both know that it is impossible.

"It's a test," he says softly, voicing another truth. "He knows who I am, where I am. We're living on borrowed time."

His hand touches mine. The skin is soft, warm, and I know he must have removed whatever disguise he was covering it with. This body has large hands. I had once shuddered and retched at the memory of their touch. Now, I jolt away as if burned. The sensation spreads through my body and I hear myself inhale sharply.

It is a beautiful fire, this frightening heat in my nerves. It is the feeling of life, moving through me from the outside in. And it is too much to contain. I no longer wish to destroy, or be destroyed. Nor do I wish for a gift, or to succeed. I wish to be alone and to rebuild the fortress of my thoughts. I get to my feet.

"Will you tell him you killed me?"

I hesitate, eyes drawn back down to his crouching form. I think of killing him. I think of my sisters. I think of Christmas.

"The scalpel was broken beyond use during the elimination," I murmur, my voice grating my throat. "The target was an engineer."

"Doctor . . . "

"A gift," I say. "In return."

"In return for what?"

"Goodbye, Cassian."

I leave swiftly. He does not follow. I re-join the throngs in the streets, my hands now deep in my pockets, the list left behind on the ground.

This is my Christmas Present. I shall not fear the one that is yet to come.


End file.
